Letters from Lost Souls
by pxradise
Summary: "I had to put my thoughts on paper, everyone here is as insane as I am" / The Murder House basement holds more secrets than anywhere else, and the letters of the lost souls that reside in the house are being discovered by you one by one. / "We're all just lost souls, aren't we?" / Taking Requests!
1. Go Away

**AN: Okay, first of all: thanks for reading this in advance, I really appreciate that you took time out of your day to read my work, it means so much and ily all! I'm happy to take requests so if you have an idea or just a topic, character or pairing you'd like me to write a letter on, please go ahead and pm me! I'm starting this off with Violet. For the next few chapters I'm going to focus on Murder House characters, because I've only watched the first few episodes of Asylum and Coven but if you make a request for one of those characters I'm sure I can work something out for you. **

**Sorry this is so long, I'm gonna stop boring you now aha. It would mean so much if you guys could all leave a review, even just a quick one, thankyou! x**

**"I couldn't stop loving Tate. I haven't stop loving Tate. I never did. I never will."**

January 1st, 2012

If you're reading this, please get the fuck out of this house. This hell. My name is Violet, and I died in here. My story isn't important, I'm insignificant. But I have to get my words out of my head and onto paper, because everyone else in this place is as insane as I am. They think they know my pain. We've all suffered here, we've all died in here, but that's where the similarities end.

I never thought I'd be in love, but I never thought I'd become a ghost, either. Shit happens, right? Wrong. Not this amount, not all in this one house. It shouldn't, but it did. And it'll happen to you, too, if you don't get out before it takes you. I met a boy. Spoiler: he's dead. I thought he was misunderstood, like me. I thought he was different, like me. And I thought he was attracted to the darkness, like me, but he _is_ the darkness. I found out the hard way.

I was pretty messed up, even before the house. At least, I thought I was. I was lonely even when I was surrounded by people, I longed for the feeling to not feel at all and I would give anything to be in a room full of living, breathing people and feel sad like I did, because now I just feel empty. This place... It does that to you. Why would I want to be sad? Isn't it better to feel nothing at all? No. When you're sad, anything remotely positive that happens can raise your mood. Right now, I don't even have a mood anymore. I'm not living, because I'm dead, I'm just existing. We all are. In fact, we aren't even existing. We're... Floating in the darkness between life and death and we can't escape it.

My dad cheated on my mom after she had this brutal miscarriage. He thought moving house would make it all okay again. Did I mention she walked in on them? Him and a student of his, Hayden. She turned out to be a psychotic twist, and maybe you guessed, but she's dead too. That whore is trapped here too, and we're trapped here with her.

School sucked. Westfield High. The girls here and their designer bullshit and me trudging in with my fedora and cigarette with a cloud of smoke flowing like a cloudy river around my face kinda clashed. Look at me, making puns. I guess I was polluting their perfect, clean air. God, what I'd give for a cigarette right now...

He was my sanctuary. Tate. He made me okay again when I was with him. Tate cared about me, he would never leave me, and he told me he wouldn't let anyone or anything hurt me. I believed him. I guess he didn't count on himself hurting me more than any high school bitch or blade ever could. That's the thing, about being happy for a reason, for one reason. Don't. Because you can always lose that reason to be happy, and it destroys you.

I discovered that he had killed 15 kids, shot up his school. My school. So I finally did it. He told me I took so many. I don't remember how many pills I shoved down my throat so I could forget the horrors he was hiding from me and himself, so I could forget it all and cease to exist. I didn't want to believe that Tate was a bad person. Even when I knew, I went straight to that school and I asked a guy he had paralysed if he had been bullied, desperately searching for an excuse. But there is no excuse for killing 15 kids, all different kids, for taking them down with him. I told the guy that good people don't just have a bad day and start shooting people, and he made me see sense. The cold, hard fact, that maybe Tate wasn't a good person.

I didn't want to live in a world where the boy I loved was a killer. So I killed myself. When I felt my cold body being dragged across the ground and the even colder shower water stabbing my skin like daggers, when I heard him wailing my name and begging me not to die on him, I started begging myself not to die, too. Tate told me I died crying, that he held me. That I died loved.

Before I was aware that I was as dead as him, I continued loving him, but not like before. He knew I was different towards him, he said so. But I still lay there in my bed, with him. I couldn't stop loving Tate. I haven't stopped loving Tate. I never did. I never will.

My mom died after me, he had raped her. Though Nora, another ghost (you guessed it) tells me she drove him to it, that he only did it for her so she could have her baby back, I can't forgive him... Because it killed her. That baby- that thing, whatever it was... It killed my mom. He killed my mom.

So I told Tate to go away. And it worked. I told him that I believed I had changed him, that I believed his words because I did, but it was too late. I couldn't and can't and will never be able to forgive him. I feel like even though I'm already dead, some part of myself died everytime I think of him, so I try not to. I see him sometimes, I hear him crying and hurting himself, punching walls in fits of rage. It takes everything I have not to stop him. Everything. Sometimes, he leaves messages and words on my chalkboard. I never reply to them. He could follow me everywhere if he wanted, beg me for forgiveness, apologise countless times until I give in, because I know I will, and make excuses... But he doesn't. Because it'll only hurt me more, and he cares about my feelings more than his, just like he always did.

Tate told me that if you tell a ghost to "go away", they will. Maybe that'll be useful for you. If you see a beautiful boy with golden hair and the darkest, most mysterious eyes you've ever seen around, tell him to go away. Please. Tell him to go away, before he becomes your world without realising he's tearing you apart inside, slowly, and then all at once. Don't be the depressed, dead girl. Don't be me.


	2. He Doesn't Love Me

**AN: Thankyou so much for the review Poisonous Angels! I decided to centre this chapter on Chad. Yeah, I think we're all pretty blinded by how much we love Tate to sometimes realise how he hurt Violet, myself included usually haha. I'll write a letter from Moira, next chapter, I think, or maybe Vivien or Ben. I tried to make this sarcastic and witty but also pretty insightful, it was kind of a difficult one but I hope it's good :)**

**"I've come to realise that destroying their little love story, though it is based upon lies and deceit like most love stories are, will not rewrite my own. It won't make him love me."**

November 1st, 2011

He doesn't love me. Patrick doesn't love me.

Of course, I've known this for a long time. Yet everything I do is still for him, for Pat. I noticed this when Hayden, of all people, pointed it out to me. She hasn't been dead long, so I took it upon myself to explain how things work around here to the poor girl. A few moments into our discussion, I realised she was insane. But aren't we all, around here?

She told me he slammed the door in her face. Ben slammed the door in her face. If I didn't know better I'd say he's a smart man, but he's as good a husband and father as he is a therapist. One of his patients is a dead serial killer that is dating his daughter and raped his wife. Another almost committed suicide in front of him and even slit her wrists to gain his attention in a shrink session she was paying him for, and another attempted to kill his family and would have succeeded if Tate hadn't swooped in to save the damn day, pretending to be the saint we all know he's not. Where was Ben at this point? Visiting Hayden. Of course he was. And I never did like that gazebo of his.

Then she told me that myself and Hayden are not so different after all. We were both robbed of our lives by someone else, we could have both done better, yet we both pine for the one we are stuck with who does not and will not ever love us. That girl isn't right about many things, but she has me on this one.

I could have of course contradicted her a little, since Ben never did love her like Pat once loved me, he just wanted a disposable, meaningless fuck-buddy. I refrained from pointing that out, since I felt myself partially empathising with her.

Thinking back to last year, I was never really ready to let go of Pat. I told him I was decorating the house so we could sell it and be rid of both the house and eachother, but if it had come down to it; I would never have truly let it happen. The one thing that gives me cruel hope is that after Norman Bates Jr. had ended my life, Pat appeared with that damn cowboy costume on. Hell, maybe it was to catch the attention of whatever man would give him a second glance that night, but I still have this small spark of hope that it was to apologise to me and forgive me simultaneously. An effort to fix us, perhaps? I guess I'll never know, since every time I confront him I feel more broken and rejected than the last.

Then again, I suppose it can't be true. He doesn't love me.

So here I am, dead, trapped everyday but one a year for an eternity with the sick little psychopath who broke my neck and a man who doesn't love me. I also have to contend with the other residents of this cursed house, and honestly, I feel like I'm the only one who gives a shit about much of anything around here.

You think it seems difficult to be gay in 2011 America? Well, just wait until you're a _dead _gay man in a house full of straight people with no sense, no class and above all: no fucking style. It's hell. Literally.

Last night, since I had nothing much else to do since Patrick was out exploring the vast expanse of gay nightclubs in Los Angeles for the one night that he could and reaping the benefits of remaining young and attractive forevermore after death, I destroyed the perfect Halloween display that I had created for the Harmons, along with Moira's god awful pumpkins.

I plan to tell Violet all about Tate's little secret, if he doesn't kill her before I get a chance. Which one? There's so many. Maybe the one about him shooting 15 kids dead who had done nothing to him because what? He had mommy issues? Or maybe the one about him ruining my favourite holiday of the year, as well as my life, a year and a day ago. What about the one where he raped her mother? That's pretty good, right? Huh. Maybe I could have fun with this, after all.

However, I've come to realise that destroying their little love story, though it's based upon lies and deceit like most love stories are, will not re-write my own. It won't make him love me.

If you're in love, get the fuck out of here before you're stuck with someone forever, because one of you will fall out of love and the other won't; and that hurts more than any breakup could. Because we will never really... Break-up, Pat and I. We are bound to eachother whether we want to be or not, just like we are bound to this house.


	3. So Much Sorrow

**AN: Okay, first I'd like to say I'm so sorry for taking over a week to update, I've been really working at my other story, but I'll try and update this one quicker from now on :)**

**Clouldcity'sbookwarm requested a chapter from either Thaddeus of Nora's POV. At first I though I could write a Thaddeus one but since he's so young and not even human anymore I'm not sure that I could really do it much justice, so here's Nora!**

**What would you guys like to see next? I could write a letter from Constance or even the kids from the shooting, despite them not actually living in the house. Also, I was thinking maybe Leah? I think her words on what happened to her in the basement were really interesting and intense and I could write something from her POV with enough to work with. **

**It can be about any aspect really of Murder House from just about any character's POV, so PM me or include your request in your review if you'd like to leave one; which would be really appreciated. I'll update quicker this time, by sometime tomorrow if I can get at least one review on this chapter.**

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I wanted to be a mother, and when I finally got what I wanted I suppose I failed to appreciate it as much as I should have. My baby was stolen from me, and my marriage was destroyed long before that; but I didn't ever consider suicide until the wretched man I once called my husband turned my dear Thaddeus into a demonic monster.

I should, of course, have begun by stating that we were once very much in love. However, Charles became consumed by the idea of success and the ever so desired state of being successful. I was quite content to maintain my socialiate status and enjoy my lavish lifestyle; though Charles put at end to that when he built me the house that I am forced to spend an enternity confined to, for all but one day of the year.

I must admit, I may have been rather reckless with my fortune, and his income just did not permit my spending. But I have always been wealthy and have always enjoyed the finest things in life, Charles should have provided me with that; not this house.

I no longer recognise what was once my home, perhaps because it never truly was. Everything has changed, and I suppose one could contradit me and inform me that it has developed into something better, but I would always disagree. It is filled with hopeless, tormented, lost souls. The suffering will never end, here. I resent Charles very much for creating this house, this demon.

My memories return to me in fragments, therefore I am unsure of how long I have lingered here against my will and have long since given up attempts to escape it. I'm not living, yet I'm not dead. I linger, as though I am stuck between the darkness and the light. Though isn't it all just darkness with shades of grey in between?

I believe I once knew the boy with the golden hair who spends his days in the basement destroying both himself and the contents of the room. The imposing man with dark hair who hasn't been here for as long as most of us, but for at least two Winters, visits him on occasion. He leaves with a conflicted expression upon his face, and I am unsure as to why.

In my times of sorrow I often visit the boy, too. Sometimes I find solace in him, and other times, it is like he is not here at all. His body seems to be, yet his mind is lost elsewhere. I tell him that life is too short for so much sorrow, and he often informs me that this is no longer life and that I once told him that before, and at the time he truly agreed. Then he disappears into the darkest corners of the room that I do not care to venture into. I have a feeling that there is truth to what he tells me, that I may indeed have spoken those same words to the young man before, though I often find myself questioning memories. I have no grip on reality, on what has actually happened or what has happened simply in my head.

Everyday I pine for my baby. I wail and cry, and it is ever so tiring. However, I cannot bring myself to end my own sorrow, though I advise others to do so when they cannot either. The baby I was given a winter ago was not _my _baby. I realised soon enough that he would not be adequate, I could not care for him. The woman with the hair that brings visions autumn leaves into my mind has gained full care of him now. I do not recall where he came from or how he became mine, but no matter, because he will simply never become my Thaddeus.

My Thaddeus. Charles transformed him into something so un-godly and monstrous to the point where he was and continues to be un-recognisable. He is no longer my Thaddeus, my baby has moved onto a further reality and I do so wish that I will be at peace with him nestled in my arms, once again.

It seldom enters my so filled yet so empty mind, but on occasion, I do recall performing some terrible acts. Though I do suppose I did not directly perform any procedures on the girls I invited into my home, I manipulated my husband into doing so. Perhaps I made him as insane as he made me, though I will never know. When Charles approaches me, I dismiss him.

Those poor girls. They were so misinformed and selfish. I cannot blame them for attempting to be rid of the life, or, in their cases, burden growing inside of them; though I cannot fathom they're reasoning, either. I find myself realising that they had no reasoning to make, they were young and vulnerable, and I took advantage of them. I took advantage of them because I desired luxury, and I was losing my privileges to which I was so accustomed to receiving. So I allowed Charles to take away their babies' chances to become successful adults, and their mothers' chance to become a better mother than I ever was or could be. Each patient did of course give consent, but I still feel as though I robbed them of something other than their money.

I often find myself wondering if I pushed Charles into insanity as he pushed me. I may never know, as I dismiss him whenever he approaches me. I just don't wish to be around the man, so I tell him simply to "go away", and he does.

"Go away." That's why that young man from the basement is so anguished, so miserable. The young lady who spends her time conversing with her family monotonously and inflicting headaches upon me with her ever so loud music emitting from her room. She told him to go away. They were once in love, and I truly believe that they still are, and always will be. Their love doesn't seem to fade as mine and Charles did. It is, however, tainted by something terrible. It cannot continue as it did, for a reason that I am not aware of. Their story is tragic, and more so than any of ours. I don't believe I had ever witnessed true, everlasting love, until I became aware of the love that they shared. I do wonder if their broken pieces will still fit together one day...

The couple that consists of two males or did at one point, though ceases to now is another rather upsetting story. They are dead, I believe. I do not recall witnessing it happen, but it seems to me like somebody robbed them of their lives. I do not comprehend how man lying with man could ever be acceptable in an honest world, but this is, of course, _not _an honest world. I don't believe there was ever such a thing, after all the death and destruction that I have experienced and witnessed in my time here. One man remains deeply in love while the other does not return his feelings. Unrequited love is one of the very worst kinds.

The woman with my baby and the man who visits the familiar boy in the basement fell in and out of love several times, but I believe that they may well be healing from their wounds when they aren't pouring salt in one another's.

The rest of the souls that wander the halls, sometimes vacant, sometimes trapped in their own minds that are full of complicated, terrifying thoughts- they are alone and shall always be that way forevermore.

Now that you are aware of the tragedies people have suffered inside of this house, why on earth would you wish to remain here? As I once said... Life is too short for so much sorrow.


End file.
